It’s not often I relish the sun,
But did so,
Come one almond eye’d glance –
And “awkward.”
It’s not often I gaze, the stranger,
But did so,
Come the little silk doll, snoring –
Curled upon her back.
It’s not often I hate, putrid,
But did so,
Come man, come companion –
And the trash she’d burrowed.
It’s not often I speak, I only write,
But did so,
Witnessed smug, and a
A smoke, cradled poignant, “husband.”
It’s not often I blush, nor often I fold,
But did so –
Come a mother and son,
Climbing mountains, cursed, and trash.
It’s not often I scamper, tail tucked leg,
But did so –
Come her freckled red ménage,
And the man who’d snapped his fingers.
It’s often, and ought I point a finger,
But to did so –
Never knowing love, never knowing angst,
And never knowing them.
On and for the ******* diggers of Guiyang; the little baby on her back, the splots of soot and refuse wrought her arms - I'd never complain about "me" again, I'd only hope a prosperity for us all.
